We have a little dog, a miniature Schnauzer called Penny. There is nothing Penny loves more than to jump up on the back of the couch so she can look out the window and watch people, other dogs and the occasional cat, going by. She gets pretty excited and barks a lot. An awful lot.
I often wondered why she does it. Now I know. In fact, when a human being I recognise walks past our house, I’m almost tempted to jump on to the back of the couch myself and bark at them. But I just smile and wave weakly even though I’m actually delighted to see another human being.
This isolation has changed us, or, at least, it’s changed me.
I’m not quite the party animal I may once have been. But I do like pubs. And I love gigs in small venues where you can’t move for people. I love crowded bars and have my favourites, many of them. I’ve been in 500 bars in Dublin, mostly in connection with work, of course.
As I get older I’ve begun to prefer live music to pints. Right now I’d prefer anything to the isolation.
Until we went to Level 5 I had visitors. Friends would call and, staying well apart, head to the living room, where they’d sit on one side of the room and I on the other as we’d chat for an hour or two.
Occasionally, the chat would be about someone we knew who had died or might be news or an old schoolfriend who had fallen ill. And sad though such conversations were, they were, at least, conversations.
Will we venture indoors? Probably not. The rules are relaxed a little, but the fear remains
Yes, of course, the three of us in the house talk to each other. We talk about the pandemic, of course, but we also talk about music and books and sport and, now that our daughter Charlotte is a teenager, social issues and politics.
And I hate following that with the word "but", but we all miss the company of friends and family. We can't go to Drogheda to see my wife's sisters. At least now we can go to south Dublin to see my brother and sister. But will we venture indoors? Probably not. The rules are relaxed a little, but the fear remains.
It’s difficult to figure out, too, whose bubble we might be in or who might be in ours. Certainly, my Dublin siblings have their own bubbles full of children and grandchildren. My friends have bubbles full of siblings. So we may not have a bubble, or, if we’re allowed, we might give our bubble to our daughter, who hasn’t had friends around for an age.
It’s nice to see places of worship open again, and it’s likely we’ll book for Mass on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. But I’ve a feeling that, when I get to the door, I’ll funk it.
We’re relaxing but, at the same time, preparing to lock down again.
The dire predictions suggest that, once Christmas is over and the virus has had its way for a couple of weeks, we’ll be back to Level 5. And if it must be, it must be. But I remember that, last March, I mentioned how the glib attitude of some people towards this virus was both stupid and dangerous. Those people are still around.
But that glibness seems to have spread to some of those we trust to lead us out of this pandemic. “Don’t book your flights home for Christmas,” was an example. Booking those flights was, for many people, what kept them – and those they were coming home to visit – going for the past nine months.
Now it seems that I have been deemed “unclean” by Nphet. “Visors to be banned,” said one headline recently. “Push to outlaw use of visors,” said another, both inspired by the words of medical experts.
There are a few things missing from this message as it has been delivered, such as subtlety, compassion and understanding for those of us unable to wear masks due to our breathing difficulties.
It is already the case that those of us who must wear visors, if we have the nerve to venture into a shop, are subject to the occasional stare. Words “banned” and “outlaw” in relation to visors, don’t help. There is a more sensitive way of getting the message out.
This year, there will be no Christmas Eve drinks with friends in the sports club, no Christmas morning drinks in a friend's house
I know I’m lucky. I haven’t been an in-patient for more than 12 months now. And that’s the longest continuous time I’ve been out of hospital since my bone marrow transplant 12 years ago.
But it's going to be a strange Christmas. Oh, yes, I can always Zoom my siblings. We already did one for Thanksgiving, organised by my brother in Connecticut. It was brilliant. But it's no substitute for the real thing. And right now the real thing is a bit risky, even if it's likely to be allowed, more or less.
This year, there will be no Christmas Eve drinks with friends in the sports club, no Christmas morning drinks in a friend’s house. We’ll have our Christmas dinner, the three of us, and maybe watch It’s a Wonderful Life again.
I still have vivid memories of my Christmases with my family from 50 and 60 years ago. And they’re fond, happy memories. I can’t imagine Charlotte looking back on this year’s festivities with any sense of longing or nostalgia. It’s going to be tough.
Hopefully, I’ll resist the temptation to join the dog on the back of the couch looking out the window and barking at the neighbours. But the way things are going, I’m making no promises.